Not your every day occurrence. At least let's hope so for all our sakes. It's never happened to me before, nor to anyone else that I've met. But apparently it's not all that uncommon in Alameda.

Patty Jacobs warned me about it. Patty comes from a long line of Alamedans, as does her husband John, who many of you know from Bank of Alameda. Patty told me of a warning her mother gave her.

I think the subject came up around the board room table at the Greater Alameda Business Association. One night, we talked about our city's water and sewer lines which date back to just after the turn of the 19th century. At one point someone told me that at least one member of the city council was concerned about the age of those pipes and water security during an earthquake or other emergency. Well, somehow the conversation turned to rats.

From what I've read about the early days of the San Francisco Bay, oak forests that produce acorns - like the huge verdant forest that once populated our fair city - attracted many species of animal to eat them, among them rats. These may be some of the original native Alamedans, as disgusting as they may be.

Well, Patty told me that in the early days there was a consistent problem of these unsavory beasts climbing into sewer pipes and frightening hapless Alameda residents, snug in their Victorian-era gingerbread homes. "Always put the lid down when you flush, or a rat might come out and grab you." Young Patty was told. I laughed it off at the time.

Always naively faithful in human achievement, I thought to myself, "Here in the modern era, there's no possible way an Alamedan could be faced with such a nightmarish inconvenience. Must be an urban myth."

Imagine, sitting there minding your own business, and suddenly a rat is drowning in your toilet. Good thing I wasn't sitting there minding my own business, pun intended. My cat and I were leisurely sitting in the living room, and overheard some splashing in the bathroom. Curiosity could have killed both of us, as sure enough, his little pink hands and feet failing to find purchase on the porcelain, his long, pink tail sticking up like a sail, I could barely come within five feet of the rat in the bowl, while my cat peered through the tiny slit between the seat and the bowl.

"Get it, Wywee!" I screamed. The cat continued to stare, unfazed and unexcited by the proceedings. Figuring he needed a moment or two to get his bearings, I waited for the cat to do something, expecting to get a free episode of Wild Alameda right in my humble commode. After what seemed just a short time, Wyatt the cat lost interest in the wildly gesticulating and sopping wet rodent and went to lick himself in the hallway.

All the better, I suppose, because I'd prefer not to have him consuming sewer meat. Although on some level, I'd prefer if he'd just "taken care of it" in the way Jersey mobsters "take care" of someone.

So I ran and got a broom and slammed the lid shut from a safe distance. But then I paused, broom hovering over the flush lever. "Is this the right thing to do? In this modern green era, should I just flush this poor soul away?" Well, to be honest, I'm not that altruistic. But this sort of thing doesn't happen every day. I wondered, was there a health code, a procedure, something the health department or Animal Control expects you to do? I paused, and reached for my cell phone. Who else would I call, but Alameda's own Possum-Whisperer Carrie Beavers.

"You didn't know what to do when a rat popped out of your toilet so you called ME?" was the first thing she said.

"Well, you're good with animals." I said.

"You could just grab it and throw it out the window."

"Grab it! I can barely stand to be in the apartment right now."

"Why don't you just flush it then? Send it back where it came from."

"Isn't there some kind of official thing I'm supposed to do? What would Animal Control say?"

"I think they'd say to flush it." She said. "Wait hang on, Peter just walked in, let's see what he thinks." "..."

"Yeah, he says flush it."

At this point I was panicking a little bit and planning to flush it. I thought I'd give the beast one last shot, and grabbed one of my neighbors who loves animals.

"Um, what are you supposed to do when a rat pops out of your toilet?" I asked her.

"Oh my God, is he in there right now?"

"Yep, he's down there splashing around right now."

"Well did you call the landlord? He probably would say to flush it."

"Yeah I left a message for him, but my other friends said flush it."

"Hmm. Well I have these gloves," she said and showed me some highly absorbent cloth gloves. "You could grab it and throw it out the window."

"Would you do it for me? I'm scared." I whimpered.

"Well, I'm not gonna do it." The neighbor wisely agreed. "But one of our neighbors has a pet mouse, she might be willing to."

Once we got a hold of the Rodent Whisperer from the third floor I knew this situation would work itself out reasonably. She was very friendly but pointed out that the gloves weren't going to protect her very well. It was at this time I suddenly remembered the thick rubber gloves I'd purchased a year or so ago at Pagano's. I forgot I had those in the panic. After donning her gauntlets, our hero from the third floor snatched the limp gray and pink body from the bowl, finding him stone cold dead. During all the deliberation, the creature had drowned.

Holding the corpse toward me, she asked, "Do you have a window?" I opened the window nearby and she tossed the beast out deftly. It landed at the edge of our unpaved driveway.

The landlord showed up with his BB gun in hand and inspected the home for any sign of infestation and found none. It must have been a freak occurrence. When discussing the corpse on the driveway he asked me, "Would you be willing to just pick it up and chuck it in the garbage?"

"Man, give me a slimy politician or an evil developer and I can handle it, but a dead rat, no way," I said.

"Ahh, what's the difference?" he asked as he let the garbage can lid slam shut.

If you know the right thing to do in an emergency such as this, and a good disinfectant, tell me at